


Whiskey's Quicker

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (in that way that Wincest is always implied), Episode: s06e01 Exile on Main St., Gen, M/M, Soulmates, drunken angst, implied suicide, implied wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1560932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's not going to be able to keep his promise. Well, what else is new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey's Quicker

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Suicide Solution,' by Ozzy Osbourne.

He's drunk when he thinks of it. That hardly seems to matter. Lisa's in bed, Ben's long asleep, and so Dean is many swallows deep in his bottle of whiskey, smarts honed and swimming through the buzzy haze. And who cares, anyway. Who cares. Lisa takes care of him. Fine. But the people who really get it, who know who he is, they aren't talking. Bobby's incommunicado. Maybe he's dead, too. Dad's gone. Bobby's gone. And Sam—Sam.

It was the booze that gave him the idea, really. He's three fingers of cheap scotch deep, some afternoon—when is it? May? August? Ben had some issue with his laptop, something he asked for Dean's help with (and how much better Sam would have been at fixing it, how eye-rollingly irritated he would have been at Dean's clumsy attempts at IT support). Made Dean think of Ash.

He usually doesn't think about the people they've lost. The gaping emptiness of Sam's loss is a cannon-shot in his chest—a huge vacant space that nothing will ever fill, no matter what he'd promised Sam all that time ago. (How long has it been? Only a few months, by the calendar, and yet—and yet—) His raw jagged edges rarely make room for the recollection of twenty-seven years of loss, but for some reason that golden-tinted afternoon, that soft and fuzzed-out moment in Lisa's living room, Ben's laptop under his hands and the kid's easy faith steady at his side, he thinks about the genius he used to know. Ash.

Soulmates, he'd said. Dean doesn't like to remember Heaven. Being there had hurt, bad enough that he'd really wished he'd been right about the nothingness he'd assumed would have been his reward after death. Had hurt more when he'd realized that Sam didn't—that he wouldn't—but fuck it. Whatever. Heaven was just the last refuge of the hopeful, anyway. But Ash had said—Ash had said that certain people—

It's hard to think about. Dean runs his hand over his face. Light seeps in past his fingers, but he prefers the shadow, even if it's only a little darkness he can make on his own. Certain people are soulmates. Ash said it, and he's a genius, so it must be true. Soulmates share a heaven. That's what Ash said. And, if Dean thinks about it, if he's past the point where the whiskey burns his throat, then—yeah, he guesses it's true. He got to go down that familiar two-lane blacktop, he got to follow that dotted yellow line to Sam's memories. Even if he wasn't in them—even if Sam didn't care enough about him, if his big brother didn't feature in any of these 'best memories'—who cares? There's nothing Dean wants more than to watch Sam's memories. Who gives a fuck if Dean isn't in them. He wants—

God, his stomach hurts. He didn't know loss could hurt like this. He wants—all he can think about is—Sam. Damn it. Sam.

Sammy at seventeen, sharp-angled and mistrustful and sarcastic, every line of him pissed off at Dad, pissed at Dean, pissed at the world, and even then Dean had wanted to wrap him up in swaddling blankets, keep him safe. Sammy at twelve, fragile and terrified—monsters seemingly always at the edge of his vision, no matter that Dean promised that nothing could ever hurt him. Sammy at five (and doesn't Dean's gut curl over in helpless grief), little chubby face and chubby arms that wrapped around Dean's neck, wet snotty face pushed into the curve of his shoulder, and that solid, dependable heartbeat thudding under Dean's helpless hands while he promised _it's okay, Sammy, it's gonna be okay. Nothing's gonna hurt you._

What a fucking liar he was. How hopeless. There was nothing the universe wanted more than to hurt Sam, and what was Dean supposed to do against the universe? But now—now God was done with them. They'd done their duty. Fucked up the Apocalypse, and the archangels, too. And what was their reward?

This house. A good woman, kind, who moved quietly around the ever-increasing cataclysm that was Dean's loss; a boy who looked up to Dean as though he were a hero. Simple and easy days, no responsibility but what he chose. It could've been perfect. Except—Dean isn't a hero. He's just a guy. Some guy, some fuck-up, this asshole who let his little brother—who let the most important person in all creation give his life up, who let his baby brother destroy himself to save the world.

Soulmates, Ash said. They'd be together in Heaven. Except Sam's not in Heaven, is he. He's down there. Not even in Hell, a place Dean could've told him about, if he'd been brave enough. He's somewhere deeper, somewhere the devil holds sway, and he doesn't even have his soulmate to keep him company.

If Dean were in Heaven—what would happen? It doesn't make any sense that he could be there without his soulmate. If he left his body behind (useless chunk of meat it is, anyway—a receptacle for pain, and he's had enough of that to last him a few dozen lifetimes) then maybe he could become a little wisp of light. Castiel hasn't been around for a while, but Dean's pretty sure he could go up, if he wanted. He's done enough, surely. If he could just—if his heart could stop beating, if he could stop inflating his stupid lungs, then maybe he could escape this prison of flesh. Go up to the attic. And maybe there—maybe there, he could bring Sam to him. They're soulmates, after all. They can't be without one another. Obviously, with how grey and unbearable this half-life is.

Another gulp of whiskey, and it goes down like water, tasteless and necessary. Even if Sam doesn't come up to join him in Heaven, maybe Dean could come downstairs. No one needs him on Earth. If he made an end of himself, if his soul seeped out of this unwanted frail meatsuit, maybe he'd go back to Hell. He knows what it's like there. And even if he couldn't make it all the way to the cage—he could flatten himself right up against the bars. Sam would be able to see him, no matter what was happening inside. The demons could try to pry him away, could try to put him back on his old rack, but he knows their tricks and Alistair's gone, and there's no force in Heaven, Earth, or Hell that could take him away from his baby brother once he found his way back.

The blood's throbbing heavily through his veins. Useless. Dean struggles up to his feet, leaves the house and the car behind as he walks out through the night, past the houses and streets and sleeping, content people, all these souls safe and intact because of the last sacrifice of Sam Winchester. He trips, in the dark, crashes to his knees in thick damp grass. Far enough, he thinks.

The knife is sharp, still, after long months of disuse. He lays back in the grass. It's cold, but not so cold he can't bear it. He closes his eyes against a full starry sky, because it hardly counts if Sam isn't there to watch it with him. Soon, though. Soon. One way or another.

 

 

_Dean, was that—I think I saw a shooting star!_

_Yeah? Well, make a wish, then._

_What should I wish for?_

_Hell if I know. It's your wish, Sammy._

_...Okay. Well, then I wish for—_

_Hey, hey. You can't tell me. Won't come true if you tell._

_Fine. You'd think it was stupid, anyway._

_Probably._

_Shut up, Dean._

_Yeah, yeah. Well, come on, short stuff. You want to come inside?_

_Yeah. ...Dean?_

_Yeah, Sammy._

_I..._

_What?_

_...Nothing. Never mind._

_Okay, Sammy. Okay._

**Author's Note:**

> Just kind of threw this out last night (after a dinner of beer and potato chips, so I was pretty tipsy). I think it works? Continuing to think about the fourth story in 'Physical Graffiti,' but this is not going to be part of that. Would appreciate any thoughts, if you have them.


End file.
